


Second Star to the Right

by PastelMess



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Band, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicide, f scott fitzgerald, i seem to have a theme lol, maybe this should be a personal tag of mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 03:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10505673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelMess/pseuds/PastelMess
Summary: "Give me a hero and I will write a tragedy." - F. Scott FitzgeraldMonday, everything was normal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a creation of my own thoughts and my own struggles I've been going through the past couple of months. Writing really helps.
> 
> Listen. If you or anyone you know is thinking about suicide or planning on it, please talk to someone. It helps so much. Your life is worth everything. I know it might not seem like it, but we all have a purpose. Maybe you might not know it yet, but we have our whole long lives to find out our piece in the puzzle.

**Monday** , everything was normal.

Josh came into his first hour English class, sat down, and let out a loud yawn. He had gotten a grand total of four hours of sleep, spending most of it finishing up essays and other homework for his heavy workload. Why he chose to take four AP classes his senior year, was a question he'd never find the answer to.

As other sleep deprived students wandered in with groggy faces, Josh flipped through his vocab list for the quiz on Friday. He failed most of them, and figured maybe studying days in advance would help get his grade up. After all, he was in an advanced English class.

Josh wished he could go back to being worried about just vocabulary.

The seat next to him remained empty until two minutes until the final bell, when a skinny framed, dark haired boy trudged in and dropped into his seat. Josh glanced over, noting the heavy bags under the boy’s eyes.

Tyler Joseph was the most intelligent, brightest person Josh had ever met. He was a year younger, a junior, smart enough, and prepared enough, for an advanced senior English class. They only had English together and sat at the same lunch table; the two of them were probably not more than subtle friends, but Josh loved the way Tyler’s mind flowed. He saw the good, the bad, the deep, the _beauty,_ in everyone he spoke too. His mind moved like that of a genius, like Einstein, like Fitzgerald, like Shakespeare. His pen was not a merely a pen, but a weapon, used to create patterns and words and poetry that made people stop and think about what they were reading, what they were interrupting, what they saw in themselves.

Monday, Josh didn’t wish he could have done something more.

Because he didn’t know.

Class started. Mr. Gibson smiled wide and gave the class a booming “Good morning!” to which he got only three or four mumbles in return. Tyler pulled out his notebook, and started scribbling in the corner. He was drawing flowers, flowers with falling petals and long twisting vines.

He’d had that notebook all year. Josh thought maybe he had it longer, because one corner was completely ripped off and it looked like it had been through some trouble times.

Monday, Josh didn’t know how right he was.

“Today we’re starting on presentations. You will be presented with literary criticisms and will analyze them as if you were a professional critic. You may pick your groups and I will assign you your criticism.”

“Josh,” Tyler whispered without looking up from his doodles, “be my partner?”

“Sure,” Josh nodded his head as he pulled his computer out of his book bag. That was sign number one. Josh and Tyler had never been partners all year. Sure, they sat next to each other. Sure, they were friendly and kind and asked each other how the day was going. But they had never hung out, never worked on projects together, and never went to each other houses.

For the first time, Monday night, Josh would go to Tyler Joseph’s house.

_Sign #1: a change in appearance, attitude, or behavior._

“Tyler,” asked Mr. Gibson as he tapped a ruler on Tyler’s desk, “who’s your partner?”

“Me,” answered Josh for him.

“Excellent. You guys have psychoanalytic criticism.”

“Easy.” the cover of his torn notebook was slammed shut and Tyler smiled. It was the first time Josh had seen Tyler smile in weeks. Mr. Gibson walked off to visit other groups and Tyler turned back around towards Josh. “Wanna come over tonight? We can get some stuff started.”

“Sure,” Josh replied. And so he did.

Tyler’s house was similar to his, in a quiet suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of Columbus. Tyler’s bedroom was on the second floor, and besides his younger brother, nobody was home.

Josh sat cross legged on the floor while Tyler sat on the edge of his bed, balancing his laptop on his knee.

“Psychoanalytic criticism, developed by Sigmund Freud. Look at a work from a psychological point of view. This can apply to characters and the author.” the keys of his computer made a clicking sound as he typed the definition down into their powerpoint. “Why did a character make a certain choice? Does the character suffer from mental illness or some other disorder? What was the author thinking when they wrote it? What does the piece say about the author? How does their work represent their life?”

Monday night, Josh didn’t realize that Tyler had been using the project as a metaphor to relate to his own life. He was the main character in his own story, asking what _he_ had done to represent his character, himself, through his life.

_What had you been thinking Tyler? Why did you do it? What was your motive?_

But Josh knew the answers to those questions. He just didn’t understand that he had them in time.

“You know,” Tyler continued to _click click click_ at his keyboard, “there’s a theory that Neverland, like from _Peter Pan,_ is actually heaven. And Pan is some sort of angel leading away dead children to a place where they’ll never age.” he smiled, dreamily, zoning off from his computer, staring at nothing in particular. Josh didn’t notice at the time.

He noticed now.

What had Tyler been thinking about? Had he asked himself, “What if I was one of those dead children? What if I was being taken to Neverland?”

“Quite interesting to think about what happens when we die, right? I mean, if there’s a God, maybe we go to heaven. If we’ve been bad, maybe we go to hell. Or maybe we don’t. Maybe death is it, and we rot in our coffins until only skeleton bones remain.” he shrugged, reached for a pen off his bedside table covered in bite marks, and began chewing on it. “Anyways. We need two more examples.”

Josh wished he could go back to Monday night. He wished he could tell Tyler things were going to be okay. That Peter Pan _wasn’t_ going to take him to Neverland, because he needed to grow up, he needed to graduate, he needed to get a job, make a living, have a family, and fall in love.

 

 **Tuesday** , Tyler walked into first period half an hour late. He handed Mr. Gibson his yellow late pass and fell into his seat, his book bag hitting the floor with a _thump._

“Josh,” he whispered. “Come over tonight?”

“For the project?”

“No. To hang out. I have something I want to give you.”

“Sure,” Josh replied, still looking at the whiteboard where Mr. Gibson was writing down, something. Josh doesn’t remember.

But he wished he did. Because at the time, it was the most important thing to him, not Tyler next to him, asking to hang out. Josh was more concerned with the meaningless list Mr. Gibson was scrawling in a bright green Expo marker.

_Sign #2: Giving away treasured possessions._

Josh wanted to ask why Tyler looked like he wasn’t getting any sleep. He wanted to ask if Tyler was doing okay, if he could buy him an iced coffee from the vending machine downstairs, but Josh didn’t. Because Josh was a chicken and Josh was scared.

Josh wished he could go back to Tuesday night and ask.

At Tyler’s house later that night, Josh met Tyler’s parents. They were kind, generous, and spoke to Josh as if they had known him their whole lives.

“We’re so excited Tyler is bringing friends over,” Tyler’s mother exclaimed as she poured Josh a glass of sweet tea, “he was homeschooled up until high school, so we were afraid he might have trouble situating. He’s such a brilliant kid, just a little anti-social.”

 _He is brilliant,_ Josh had wanted to say. _He’s the most brilliant person I’ve ever met._

Instead, Josh only smiled. And soon after, Tyler took him and his iced tea upstairs.

His room looked bare and different from just the night before. His posters were gone, his bed was made, and his desk, which had been covered in papers, was completely empty.

“I’m redecorating,” Tyler said, and Josh had believed him.

Josh had wanted to believe him.

He wished he could go back to Tuesday night and call Tyler’s lie.

Tyler opened his closet door and pulled out a nice, mahogany ukulele. It was beautiful, detailed with swirling lines and tiny designs. Josh blinked as he took it from Tyler’s long fingers.

“Orlando,” he said. “That’s her name.”

“Orlando,” Josh repeated. “Like, Orlando, Florida?”

“Exactly. You know. Sea World. Disney. Putt Putt Golfing.” he smiled, big and wide, crooked teeth and all. It felt so genuine.

Tuesday night, Josh thought it was genuine. Tyler made a joke, a reference, one he thought was funny. It got Josh to smile.

But it was fake. Just like everything else.

He wished he could go back and tell Tyler to keep that stupid ukulele.

“I didn’t know you played,” Josh replied, dumbfounded. He ran his finger over the nylon strings. Josh realized he didn’t know much about Tyler’s personal life.

“Yeah. Started playing about a year ago. But I want you to have it. You know, as something to remember me by when you graduate.”

_Wrong Tyler. That’s not why you gave it to me._

Tyler wanted him to have it as something to remember him by.

But not for after Josh graduated.

“Anyways. I got that on a family vacation. Spent all my souvenir money on it. I have another one, so it’s okay. Please take it.” He didn't have another one, Josh later learned. And the ukulele cost four hundred dollars.

“Sure,” said Josh. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

_Take me back to Tuesday night. Play something for me, Tyler. Play me anything. I’ll listen to every last damn thing you have to say._

 

 **Wednesday,** Tyler came to school with his head shaved. All his hair was completely gone, shaved right to the point where he looked like he never had any hair at all.

Everyone looked at him when he came in right before the bell rang. Tyler stared at the ground and sat in his seat, ignoring the eyes. Ignoring the stares.

_We could have helped you._

“Okay class,” Mr. Gibson started. “Today we’re having someone come in to talk to you about a pretty heavy topic. Guidance recommended it, since it’s winter, which has the highest rate.”

He wrote on the board, in big black letters, **S-U-I-C-I-D-E.**

“Such a nasty word,” Tyler muttered under his breath. Josh continued reading his book.

He wished he could go back to Wednesday and see what Tyler was talking about. He wished he would have paid attention to the nervous looks Tyler kept giving the small, young blonde lady that discussed the warning signs, that passed out flyers most people stuffed at the bottom of their bags. Most of the boys in the class ogled at her, but not Tyler. Tyler picked at his nails. He scribbled on the desk with his pencil and smeared graphite with a hole-ridden pink eraser. His flyer was too stuffed to the bottom of his bag.

Josh wished he could go back to Wednesday morning and not follow the pattern of the rest of the class. He wished he would have read through that flyer, because then maybe he would have noticed the signs earlier, and not the day after when he found it crushed at the bottom of his backpack.

“Josh, come over tonight?”

“Sure,” Josh agreed. He did a doubletake. “Wait, don’t you have to work?”

Tyler worked at a bookstore downtown that also doubled as a cafe. It was quaint, and sold little finger sandwiches and pastries and espresso. It fit him, really. The whole store smelled like coffee and Josh often went down there to do his homework. Really though, he went down there because it gave him an excuse to talk to Tyler.

“Need more coffee?” he’d smile. It was never big, more of a half-smile, but Josh knew those were real.

He was so stupid.

“Yeah, thanks.” Tyler would pour him another cup of black coffee, and sometimes sit down to talk.

“I just finished this book,” he’d wave his hands all around as he talked. “I think Fitzgerald is my new favourite author.”

“How so?” Josh would smirk. He’d close his calculus textbook and lean forward on his elbows.

“His words are like puzzle pieces. The way the move together all fit so perfectly. They crash, and rock, and flow like ocean waves, and even when you reach a point where you’re confused, you keep reading, because it’s so beautiful. It reaches your heart, even though you don’t know what’s going on. He can use his words to touch you, to manipulate you, to move you. And the thing is, he appeals to readers of all ages, of all times. He wrote for himself, to make himself feel better. But he turned towards some dangerous habits.”

“He drank himself to death,” Josh had said, remembering the biography video they watched in English the previous year. Tyler nodded.

“He drank himself to death. Too much of a good thing turns into a heinous thing.” he stood up, smoothed out his apron, and half-smiled again. _“This Side of Paradise._ I’ll give it to you at school tomorrow.”

And sure enough, it had ended up on Josh’s desk the next morning.

They didn’t talk as much as Josh wished they had.

If he could go back to Wednesday, he would tell Tyler that. He’d tell him he enjoyed talking to him.

“No,” Tyler said, averting his eyes. He pushed the toe of his shoe into the floor. “I quit.”

Josh had been so stupid. _Sign #3. Preparing by clearing away plans so you don't become more of a burden._

“I’ll be there,” Josh promised. And so they went.

Tyler’s room was even more bare. He used the same excuse. _I’m redecorating._

They worked on the project some more. Tyler said he’d do some finishing touches later. 

“You won’t have to worry about it,” he said.

Tyler was right, but not in the way Josh wanted.

He wished he could go back Wednesday night and tell Tyler that he’d finish it instead.

“Want to study vocab?”

“Sure.” Josh moved to Tyler’s bed and watched him pull the list out of his folder. Usually he highlighted all the words for the week and starred the ones he knew.

This list was untouched.  _Sign #4: Lack of motivation._

Josh took the list from Tyler’s outstretched hands and read the first word. “Nihilism.”

“Complete nothingness and total rejection,” Tyler said back. He was montone. He was just that.

“Use it in a sentence,” Josh was quiet.

Josh was stupid.

“I am in a complete state of nihilism.”

_It was more than a sentence. It was a cry for help._

_Why didn’t you ask for help? You could have been saved._

“Sunder,” Josh moved on. Tyler would tell him the definition, and they continued until there were no more words left. And at the end, Tyler asked Josh a question.

“Do you regret anything?”

_I regret not talking to you more. I regret not doing anything to help you. I regret not noticing the signs, or reaching out. I regret being too scared._

“Life’s too short for regrets.”

“Everyone always says that, that life’s too short. But what if it’s not?” he tapped his chewed up pen on his knee. _Tap. Tap Tap. Tap Tap Tap._ Over and over again. “What if it’s just enough time? Or maybe, what if it’s _too_ long?”

Josh didn’t say anything. He was too intrigued with the way Tyler’s mind worked.

Tyler’s beautiful, twisted mind.

“Why are we here? Is it to make a difference? To bring change? Because if there’s seven billion of us, not everyone is going to impact the lives of others. Not everyone is going to change the world or the way we live. We’ll die. We’ll shrivel away. Will people be sad? At first, maybe. But they move on with their long lives. They begin to regret. Maybe they didn’t have children. Maybe they aren’t working the job of their dreams. But look at it this way.” He took a deep breath. _Tap. Tap Tap._ “Every occupation that exists in the world is done by a few thousand, maybe even millions of people. Take musicians for example. There are so many of them, were _so many_ of them, and only a few actually made a difference in the world of music--The Beatles, Elvis, Louis Armstrong. Nobody is ever going to be as great or as life changing as they were. They had their purpose, and they fulfilled it for themselves and everyone like them. When they changed the world, they opened new doors for new genres, new bands, new eras. Think about presidents. The only ones people really ever talk about are Washington and Lincoln, maybe like, occasionally Reagan, yet we’ve had forty-five. Astronauts. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, or something. Inventors? Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla. Poets: Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman. Playwrights. Shakespeare. I could go on, but everything’s the same. It’s all the same.”

“What about the people around us?”

“They forget.” Tyler pushed himself off the bed. He walked across the room, pulled out his notebook from his bag, and flipped through the pages to the one he wanted.

And then he tore it out.

Someone once asked Tyler why he was always writing in that notebook of his.

“I have a lot of thoughts to put down on paper,” was Tyler’s reply. The boy had laughed at him and walked away, and Tyler continued writing.

Josh had been curious of course. The pages seemed to be filled to the brim with words, like a code that needed to be cracked.

Tyler read out loud.

 

_Do my words even matter?_

_Is my voice even heard?_

 

He cleared his throat. His eyes were wet. Josh stared. Stared like all the other kids did with him.

 

_Love is weird._

_It feels good at first._

_Your heart flutters_

_And You. Feel. Limitless._

 

Who were you in love with Tyler?

 

_In the blink of an eye, lightning strikes._

_You’re left in the rain_

_As your heart shatters_

_And the pieces hit the floor._

 

Who broke your heart?

 

_They are heavy._

_They are dark._

_You don’t hear my pleas._

_Because I know._

_I know._

_My words don’t matter._

_My words aren’t heard._

 

Tyler ripped the poem in half and shoved the pieces deep into his trash can. “They wanted that in the newspaper, you know.” his face showed pride. Josh knew now, it was fake. “I told them no. It was written for me and only me.”

_But you read it out loud. To me. You read it to me._

“Tyler,” Josh said. Tyler made his way back to the bed and sat down. Josh reached a hand out. Tyler moved it to his waist.

_Was it me?_

The two of them leaned forward. Josh tilted his head. And their lips met.

Josh’s heart leaped out of his chest. He felt greedy. He wanted more. He wanted Tyler. He _needed_ Tyler. Why had he been so scared?

What was he scared of?

_Did I break your heart, Tyler? Was it me?_

Tyler’s hands moved to Josh’s shoulders. He pulled him closer, begging, moaning, wanting more, just like Josh.

“Touch me,” Tyler breathed heavily in Josh’s ear.

Josh couldn’t believe he was hearing this.

Below them, through the closed door, Tyler’s father laughed.

“Fuck me,” Tyler said louder.

_Did you need an excuse? Was I the reason why?_

“Are you sure?” Josh asked calmly, slowly. Tyler was a junior. Tyler was 17. Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler--

“Help me lose my virginity. It’s now or never.”

_It’s now or never._

Josh helped him. Tyler had condoms under his mattress. They locked the door, and the headboard rocked.

Tyler was quiet. Josh was impressed.

He went home that night wearing a pair of Tyler’s boxers, and a shirt Tyler gave to him.

A shirt with Mickey Mouse on it.

“It matches Orlando,” he said softly, smiling.

A small, half-smile. A real one.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Josh said, tearing his hand away from Tyler’s fingers. He reached out to press a kiss to Tyler’s cheek.

Tyler had tears in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Of course,” Josh replied, but that thank you meant so much more.

 

 **Thursday,** Josh found a note in his locker.

 

_“If music be the food of love, play on.”_

 

_William Shakespeare. Died of a fever._

 

Shakespeare. Josh scoffed, and shoved the note into his backpack.

Tyler didn’t come into class that morning. Josh saw him though, at school. He walked out of the guidance office as Josh was taking attendance down.

“Hey,” Josh waved. “Why weren’t you in class?”

“Goin’ home,” Tyler replied. “Not feeling too well. Tried to come, but...”

“Right. I understand. Feel better, okay?”

“Wait.” Tyler handed Josh another note. “Read that when you get back to class.”

“Sure.”

“Did you ever read _This Side of Paradise?”_

“You took the book back from me.” Josh had it for three days before Tyler said he needed it again. For a project, he said.

“Oh, that’s right.” Tyler smiled. “Well, I’ll see you later.”

Tyler disappeared out the door, and Josh returned to class.

That had been his last chance. Josh wished he could go back to Thursday and tell Tyler he was sorry. That he was thankful for him.

That he maybe even loved him.

He read the note.

 

_“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.”_

 

_Ernest Hemingway. Killed himself with a shotgun._

_Do you think that’s better, to die by a gunshot wound? Or to drink yourself to death until your heart stops beating? Does drinking numb the pain?_

_I guess I’ll never know._

 

Josh received two more notes that day. One in fifth period, and one in seventh.

 

_“I can resist everything except temptation.”_

 

_Oscar Wilde. Death by Meningitis. Terrible way to die. Such a brilliant man._

 

And--

 

_It was the worst of times, it was the best of times.”_

 

_Charles Dickens. Died of a stroke._

_Guess I’ll never know what that’s like either._

 

Josh knew, at this point. He was so stupid.

So, so stupid.

Each quote had a meaning to Tyler. Each author, each poem, every last thing that Tyler ever read, heard, _wrote,_ had meaning to him.

Except his own life.

Thursday night was the last time Josh would get proper sleep.

 

 **Friday,** when Josh came into English, there’s a book on his desk. It was a hard copy, and brand new from the looks of it. _This Side of Paradise._ F. Scott Fitzgerald. Josh opened it. A letter fell out, and there were words written on the inside cover.

First, two quotes. Tyler and his quotes.

 

_Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I’ll tell you a story._

 

_Give me a hero and I will write you a tragedy._

 

And at the bottom, Tyler’s name, written in sharpie. _Property of Tyler Joseph. Please return if found. (Please.)_

Josh’s brow furrowed. He was confused. Where was Tyler?

Mr. Gibson walked in. He was crying. The class settled down.

Over the intercom came the principal. No one breathed.

“Students. Faculty should have received an email. Please read it to your class.”

The book trembled in Josh’s hand.

He knew what was coming. He knew all along.

“I regret to inform you,” his voice cracked, “that one of our own students, Tyler J-” he was unable to finish. Tears began running down his cheeks.

Eyes burned the back of Josh’s skull. He, like everyone else, stared at Tyler’s empty desk. Josh was in shock.

“Tyler Joseph, has passed away as of late last night. Guidance is open if you need to talk.”

No one said a word.

No one moved.

The book fell from Josh’s hand.

Up until that day, Josh had never been to the guidance office for any guidance. But he felt like he needed to.

Ms. Thornton smiled politely, sympathetically, as Josh dropped into a chair in front of her desk. She was in charge of students A-E.

“I’m here, Josh. Whatever you need.”

He dropped the book on her desk. She cracked it open, read the quotes. Read  _property of Tyler Joseph._

“He gave this to you?” A nod. “I’m so sorry Josh.”

He felt stupid. He felt like a fool. He could have stopped this.

Josh hugged the book to his chest, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and walked away.

He didn’t stop walking until he reached his car. And then, he drove home.

 

 **Saturday,** it hit him. Josh sobbed. He sobbed until his head pounded against his skull and his face felt dry and his nose dripped with snot. His parents didn’t bother him.

His parents never met Tyler.

Josh wished they could have.

The letter sat untouched under Josh’s pillow. He couldn’t bring himself to read it. Not yet.

 

 **Sunday,** Josh found out details. Tyler swallowed a handful of pills. He was found in his bed, peaceful, his eyes closed, the corners of his lips in a half smile.

He was free.

The funeral was scheduled to take place in two weeks.

Nobody talked about Tyler. Nobody knew Tyler that well. It seemed the only people mourning for his death were adults.

And Josh.

Josh was furious. People should have been talking about him. Talking about how great he was, or making some bullshit up. Tyler didn’t deserve radio silence.

 _I’m sorry,_ Josh wanted to say, wanted to scream.

Tyler was the hero in his own tragedy. Josh was who he picked to tell.

_Why me?_

 

 **Monday,** Josh came into school an hour late. He couldn’t bare to see Mr. Gibson’s face again. Not after Friday.

Tyler’s locker was decorated in post it notes and pink hearts made out of construction paper and photographs. One fluttered to the ground.

Josh reached for it.

 _Rest in peace,_ it said. Josh crumpled it up and threw it away.

Nobody talked to him all day. Nobody asked if he was okay or needed to talk. They were barely doing anything in their classes, and everyone seemed to understand that Josh was not okay nor did he want to talk.

Ms. Thornton called him back down to guidance. Josh left school again.

The school called home. Josh’s mother vouched for him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as Josh passed by to go to his room.

“Me too.”

 

 **Tuesday,** Josh didn’t go to school. He opened Tyler’s letter up and unfolded it with tears burning in his eyes.

 

_Josh--_

_You made the last week of my life the best I’ve ever had._

_Everyone always talked about how great you were. And they were right. Because you were great. And you understood me._

_You didn’t judge me. You never judged me. You were my friend, and I wish we could have talked more. More than that last week._

_I don’t know when you’ll read this. Perhaps you’ll wait a few days. I understand. I know my death will be hard on a few people. But you’ll get better. You’ll forget about me in a couple months. My purpose in life will be fulfilled by someone else._

_When we kissed, I felt invincible. I felt happy. And that was unheard of, because I have never been happy. Not truly. And maybe that’s the point of life. Maybe there’s multiple parts. Who knows, really? Maybe it's a part of life's mysteries. Something we will never be capable of understanding._

_My life was stagnant. I didn’t find help because I didn’t want to be saved. Don’t blame yourself. There isn’t anything you could have done._

 

Yes there was. Josh could have done so much to stop him.

 

_I chose you to tell my story too because I knew I could trust you. I’m the hero in my own tragedy, and the hero always dies. Maybe for the good of humanity._

_You don’t write because you want to say something. You write because you have something to say. So here’s my story._

_Thank you, Josh Dun. For everything._

 

No. No, no. That can’t be it. There has to be more!

But there was nothing more, because Tyler had already told his story and Josh hadn’t listened.

And every so often, Josh glanced at Tyler’s ukulele in the corner of his room. He’d pick it up and strum it and hear Tyler reciting some quote from some author and the way he or she died. He’d visit that bookstore and order a coffee and see Tyler’s bright smile flashing back at him, crooked teeth and all.

He checked out every last Fitzgerald book there was, and he wrote in all of them.

_This isn’t the end of your story. It’s the beginning._

Tyler hadn’t viewed the world that way. Josh knew that now. He saw the life he was living as the end, and death as his escape.

Josh hoped Tyler was in Neverland.

 

 **Sunday, two weeks later,** was Tyler’s funeral. His parents allowed Josh to put _This Side of Paradise_ in Tyler’s casket, with one new addition.

 

_Just think of happy thoughts, and you’ll fly._

 

Sunday, two weeks later, Josh said goodbye.


End file.
